


The Ember of Healing

by Lady CAMo (LadeeCam0)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 06:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16192430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadeeCam0/pseuds/Lady%20CAMo
Summary: A former thrall of Sauron seeks asylum in the aftermath of the War of the Ring.





	The Ember of Healing

It never ceased to amaze what tales folk will tell, how truths get twisted into legends and myths in the telling. Sometimes, this is outright lying to make the story seem grander. Other times, it is because the storyteller doesn’t remember the details properly, or lacks the complete knowledge of the story’s subject. Does it matter to my tale? Not really.

Those writers of history in the Fourth Age, and doubtless in all ages, inevitably made mistakes or embellishments for their own purposes. But know this: the so-called Fell Peoples and Thralls of Sauron the Deceiver did not all slay themselves after the One Ring was destroyed. To be sure, a great many did. Some of those of the lesser orders did so out of despair or because their savagery no longer had a direction other than toward that which should never have been made in the first place. Some of those of the greater orders that slew themselves did so out of shame. After all, that a single Maia could seduce and exert influence bordering on control of other Maiar to the ruin of so many, was shameful to us.

Yes: us.

Mairon, the Maia called Sauron, should never have been able to bend other Maiar to his will. Melkor? He was a Vala, and the Valar had dominion over the Maiar. That I had been pressed into his service was no marvel. But how Mairon became so mighty, I might not ever truly fathom. His might seemed nearly all-powerful. Could we have resisted him if we tried? I might never know.

While I did not directly take part in the War of the Ring, it cannot be said I had been idle after Isildur’s defeat of Sauron. I might not have been as noticed as some of Sauron’s other thralls, but my influence had still been felt. Slaying myself seemed a dishonorable course of action after the One Ring was destroyed. That would be too easy a fate for one such as me. I had been party to so much destruction, I felt it was my duty to stay in Middle-earth to help heal if I could.

And so, at Midwinter in the final year of the Third Age I came to the Barrow Downs and cleansed them of the few remaining barrow-wights. I made a home of a sort for myself there, dwelling in one of the barrows. Though the wights were gone from the downs, it was known that there were still former agents of Sauron here and there in Middle-earth. This was a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing in that I had solitude there on the Downs, as many feared fell beings such as myself might still lurk there. It was a curse in that King Aragorn II Elessar had placed a particularly watchful guard around the Shire, and the Barrow Downs weren’t very far from that land. The sudden quietness among the barrows, oddly enough, had some fearing a new might was festering there. I felt I might need to seek sanctuary. Elessar was, of course, a descendant of the Numenoreans. It was one of his ancestors who slew the Maia known as Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs. What would Elessar do if I were to prostrate myself before him? How would he judge me? I knew him to be a righteous man, so it was most likely he would send me into the West to face my doom in Valinor. That would have been right and proper. But, I decided not to go to the White City. Instead, on Midsummer’s Eve in the first year of the Fourth Age, I went into the Old Forest. There was one there with whom I would seek counsel. He was the Oldest. He was Fatherless.

I sought Tom Bombadil.

Bombadil was a singular being, and he could be nigh impossible to find if he chose to remain hidden. It was said that only beings of a pure heart could find him. Was there ever a time when my heart was pure? I couldn’t remember.

At any rate, I didn’t want to declare my true nature to Bombadil right away. So I took physical form, and more the form of Men than of Elves. Still, I was clad in black, with long, flowing hair to match. I was going to meet an ageless being. It seemed best if I appeared ageless, too. And while mortals might have trouble finding his house, I was not mortal. Finding his house was easy. But where was Tom?

No sooner had that thought entered my mind as I stood there, marvelling at his splendid and humble home, than the sound of him singing came to me on the gentle breeze. Some things will never change! And soon he was there: the impossibly joyful Tom Bombadil, striding toward me with the very air around him seeming to shimmer with music. I had to wonder: who was he? Could this being whom we called Fatherless actually be the Father-of-All? Music was seemingly a part of him, and Eru Illúvatar used music to make everything, including the Flame Imperishable. Who, or what, was this Bombadil?

I think none of us will ever know.

“Well, you are a fantastic thing, now aren’t you?” said Tom as he bounded up to me. “Goldberry! We have a guest this fine Midsummer evening! Come in, friend, come in!”

“You call me ‘friend,’ O Fatherless One?”

“Indeed I do!” the ancient being cried joyously. “And why not? Who under the Sun and Moon is not friend to Tom Bombadil-o?”

I could think of many who would have sought to be his enemy, but I held my tongue. After all, those whom I thought of had also been agents and thralls of Melkor and Mairon. They sought to be enemies with all who were not servants of the Fell Lords.

“Greetings!” an ageless woman said brightly as I entered the modest but richly lit house. Light seemed to just … _grow_ everywhere!

Tom spoke, bringing my attention back to my purpose. “Now, friend, you seem troubled. What brings you to the Old Forest?”

“I seek asylum, my lord.”

“Who are you talking to?” asked Bombadil, looking around, even darting to the door and looking out toward the trees. “What lord? Surely you cannot mean me.”

“I think she does, my love,” said Goldberry.

“Me?” Tom asked, then added, “She?” looking me up and down with a quizzical eye.

“Yes, Fatherless One,” I replied. “My name, if it were to be uttered in the tongues of Middle-earth, is Dúathwen.”

“Ah! Shadow-daughter!” Tom clapped his hands. “Well then, Daughter of the Shadow, allow me to introduce Goldberry, the Daughter of the River!”

“I am honored to meet you,” I bowed to Goldberry. “You and the Fatherless One are well known among my kind.”

“I’ll leave you womenfolk,” Tom said, prancing off whither he would go.

“Your kind, the Valarauco, is known to me though maybe not as well known by my husband,” the River-daughter said to me. “That is why he seemed confused that I called you ‘she,’ as he has only known males of your order. You come seeking asylum, you say? Are you being hunted?”

“My lady, I—”

“Hush,” said Goldberry, stepping forward to embrace me. Me! A balrog. A demon of shadow and flame from the ancient world! My kind had been led astray by Melkor Morgoth himself. Though I had not wrought truly evil horrors upon the Earth since the time of his defeat, it cannot be said I was idle or an agent of Him Who Wrought the Flame Imperishable during these past ages. And Mairon? That my spirit had been influenced so heavily by one who should have been nothing more than one of my peers was shameful to me. What evils had I done while not in full command of my faculties?

“I do not fear any doom Eru Illúvatar might decide against me,” said I, and Goldberry released me to hold my gaze. “Indeed, any doom he might pronounce is his right and I would not protest it. But before I return into the West to face my doom, I would tarry here in the world for a time to experience its beauty and, if I might, undo some of the hurt I have wrought.”

“Neither Tom nor I can give you the asylum you seek,” Goldberry said sadly to me. “Only the Father-of-All can decide your doom or grant you clemency. And yet … walk with me, sister.”

Stepping out of the modest home, we began walking toward the River Withywindle. There was no sign of Tom. But he would wander far and wide as he saw fit. It came as no surprise that I could not find him now.

“I feel it is no coincidence that you came to us on the longest day of the year,” the River-daughter said to me after we had been walking for a time.

“Your feeling is correct, my lady.”

“Dúathwen,” said she. “There is no need to call me ‘lady.’ We are sisters, you and I. Please, call me Goldberry.”

“You know what I am.”

“Indeed I do, as I have already said. You are a Maia, specifically a Valaraukar, a Balrog. Muttering does not become you.” Though it was an admonition, Goldberry said it with a warm, sisterly smile. “Were you ensnared and enslaved by Morgoth against your will? Or, did you allow yourself to be swayed? I will not say, ‘It matters not,’ for it matters greatly. But what is done is done and cannot be undone. Only Eru may decide your doom; we both know this is true. What you and yours did brought change to the world. Was it part of the Eru’s plan for the Music? Only he knows. But, that is not what we are discussing at this time. You came here on the longest day of the year.”

“Yes, Goldberry, I did. And it is not coincidence. Too long have I been in the Shadow. While the Light is not mine, I will hide from it no more.”

“It was you who cleansed the Barrow Downs, was it not?” the ever perceptive River-daughter asked.

“It was,” said I. “I came thither at Yule, to enter that place on the longest night. Most of my years in Middle-earth have been as a Balrog, but I am a Maia nonetheless. I gave the Barrow-wights peace, and they have returned to the Flame Imperishable.”

“That seems a task much better suited to a Maia,” Goldberry smiled. “But know this: it is not your charge to undo all the hurts of Melkor and Mairon. Those hurts cannot be undone. What hurts you wrought in their names or while under their spells cannot be undone. All you can do is seek to prevent the effects of those hurts from growing.”

“I am a spirit of shadow and flame,” said I, bitterly. “What can I do to heal?”

“Sister, all that exists flows from the Music!” Goldberry told me. “And even that which the Father-of-All did not foresee, he will not forsake. There is life that dwells in the dark that is unsullied by the will of Melkor. And fire does more than destroy.”

“You speak comfort to me,” I marvelled. “I, who is come from Utumno and the pits of Angband, who fought for Melkor.”

“I do, sister.”

Again, I marvelled at this.

“Dúathwen, Melkor is long defeated. Even his lieutenant, Mairon, is vanquished. Dwell not on the past, on your past. It is fixed in place and even Eru Illúvatar can not unmake it. It is the Fourth Age of the World!” Goldberry flung her arms wide and spun about, in a short dance of joy. “I do not think you will truly need asylum. The Father-of-All will welcome you home should you choose to go into the West. He will have a doom to decide against you, but he would not take action without receiving you and hearing your case. Should you choose instead to stay here in the world? Well, by now you must certainly understand the ways in which we are diminishing. But do not let this trouble your heart! You can still wield some influence. So can we all, so long as Arda endures.”

“Sister,” I said to Goldberry, “you give me hope and a sense of purpose.”

“Remember, Dúathwen: you can strive to heal that which you cannot undo,” said the River Daughter. “That might seem like a nonsense, but I believe you will come to understand in time that healing is not undoing. And so, I take the name Dúathwen from you. Your name shall now be Yúla-en-nestad: the Ember of Healing!  Now, come with me, Juliember! Let us return to my home and prepare supper for ourselves!”

I supped with Goldberry that night, and stayed in her house. Where Tom might have been during that time, who could say? In truth, I stayed with Goldberry for a time, learning from her how to truly be a Maia. I did not think she was of that order, for she seemed greater than we. Tom would come and go as he pleased and I stayed with them until Midwinter, leaving on the longest night of the year. I took my leave of them, and went out into the world.

Arda has always changed. I’m certain that was part of the plan for the Music. I had stayed through the Fourth Age to help heal the hurts and guide the goodness. A sort of self-imposed penance for my time as a servant of Melkor Morgoth and a thrall of my peer Mairon. But as that age came to a close and the next started, I found I was in love with Middle-earth. Yes, many of the places changed, the lands moved, and it truly became a world of Men. That is not to say the other peoples disappeared. They simply became less numerous and less obvious.

Yes. I knew where and how to find the Elves and Dwarves and Hobbits even in the Seventh Age. And not only them, but the Orcs and Goblins and so-called Fell Beasts of all types: dragons and cold-drakes and the like. They were not gone from the world, but simply cloaked. They wanted only to exist. And so, they never left Arda. Neither had I. When I took physical form, I would do so in the guise of any common woman for the time and place wherein I would manifest. In this, the Seventh Age of the World, my garb was sturdy trousers, a plain shirt, and leather boots and jacket. To better fit in with my current place and time, my sable locks were trimmed short, standing proud in a manner that was termed “butch” by the people of that place and time.

If the establishment I was current sitting in existed back in the Fourth Age, it would have called an Easterling tavern. Here, in a city on the western edge of a large landmass, it was known as a Chinese restaurant. I hadn’t yet ordered any food as I was waiting for my dining companion, one whom I hadn’t seen in ages. Literally. I was idly sipping my tea when He entered, smiling, and approached my table.

“Julie Ember,” said He, greeting me with outstretched arms. He, too, had taken on the appearance of a common but ageless man of the time.

Standing and stepping into His embrace, I greeted Him in return: “Father.”

“It’s been ages, child.”

We took our seats, and I couldn’t help but wonder at the fact I was sitting at table with the Father-of-All, Him Who Wrought the Flame Imperishable. I had never seen Him in Arda. Or, I had never seen Him in Arda that I was aware of. The last time I would have been in this actual presence was in Valinor, before the Ages of the World.

“Goldie and Tom send their love,” said Eru. “They speak highly of you. Now, tell me daughter: what have you been up to for these past three ages of the world.”

“That’s quite the tale, Father,” I replied. “It will take more than this luncheon for me to tell you everything.”

“Well then, we shall have quite a visit, shan’t we?”

He seemed so happy to see me! I had no reason to fear His doom. I had prepared myself for this moment. I would spend as much time with my Father as I could.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually got the idea for this story while having lunch at Red Jade in San Francisco. It occurred to me that since our present time is the Seventh Age of Arda, that Easterlings could be thought of as various Asian cultures. Yeah: all that flitted through my mind as I had lunch. And from those thoughts, this story grew.


End file.
